INJUN SUMMER

Anyone who grew up in Chicago remembers Injun Summer. The Sunday Tribune magazine would run it on the cover at the beginning of Fall. They quit running it because of political correctness, and that's okay, but I always saw it as a reminder of simpler times when the elders would tell stories of folk lore and poetry.

I've attached Injun Summer as it appeared in the 50's and 60's along with a few poems of October. I wanted to make a special edition of my newsletter out of it but the size of the graphics were hard to work with in that format.

My grandparents were born in the 1880's and their families remember the Indian wars and eventual demise of Native Americans. Times and attitudes were different then and there was no political correctnes. Those sentiments carried over to our times. While I don't condone racial hatred or even indifference, I also don't condone cencorship. That is why I'm passing along Injun Summer. When it was first printed, it was just an old folk story. Enjoy it for that reason.

Another reason it's irrelevant today is that nobody burns leaves anymore or sits around camp fires and tells stories. This story won't mean a thing to younger readers so explain it to them.

Sincerely,
Phil

INJUN SUMMER

Yep, sonny this is sure enough Injun summer. Don't know what that is, I reckon, do you? Well, that's when all the homesick Injuns come back to play; You know, a long time ago, long afore yer granddaddy was born even, there used to be heaps of Injuns around here-thousands-millions, I reckon, far as that's concerned. Reg'lar sure 'nough Injuns-none o' yer cigar store Injuns, not much. They wuz all around here-right here where you're standin'.

Don't be skeered-hain't none around here now, leastways no live ones. They been gone this many a year.

They all went away and died, so they ain't no more left.

But every year, 'long about now, they all come back, leastways their sperrits do. They're here now. You can see 'em off across the fields. Look real hard. See that kind o' hazy misty look out yonder? Well, them's Injuns-Injun sperrits marchin' along an' dancin' in the sunlight. That's what makes that kind o' haze that's everywhere-it's jest the sperrits of the Injuns all come back. They're all around us now.

See off yonder; see them tepees? They kind o' look like corn shocks from here, but them's Injun tents, sure as you're a foot high. See 'em now? Sure, I knowed you could. Smell that smoky sort o' smell in the air? That's the campfires a-burnin' and their pipes a-goin'.

Lots o' people say it's just leaves burnin', but it ain't. It's the campfires, an' th' Injuns are hoppin' 'round 'em t'beat the old Harry.

You jest come out here tonight when the moon is hangin' over the hill off yonder an' the harvest fields is all swimmin' in the moonlight, an' you can see the Injuns and the tepees jest as plain as kin be. You can, eh? I knowed you would after a little while.

Jever notice how the leaves turn red 'bout this time o' year? That's jest another sign o' redskins. That's when an old Injun sperrit gits tired dancin' an' goes up an' squats on a leaf t'rest. Why I kin hear 'em rustlin' an' whisper in' an' creepin' 'round among the leaves all the time; an' ever' once'n a while a leaf gives way under some fat old Injun ghost and comes floatin' down to the ground. See-here's one now. See how red it is? That's the war paint rubbed off'n an Injun ghost, sure's you're born.

Purty soon all the Injuns'll go marchin' away agin, back to the happy huntin' ground, but next year you'll see 'em troopin' back-th' sky jest hazy with 'em and their campfires smolderin' away jest like they are now.

Top

From his pipe the smoke ascending
Filled the sky with haze and vapor,
Filled the air with dreamy softness,
Gave a twinkle to the water,
Touched the rugged hills with smoothness,
Brought the tender Indian Summer
To the melancholy north-land,
In the dreary Moon of Snow-shoes.
- Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Hiawatha 1855

"There is no season when such pleasant and sunny spots may be lighted on, and produce so pleasant an effect on the feelings, as now in October."
Nathaniel Hawthorne

"The sweet calm sunshine of October, now
Warms the low spot; upon its grassy mold
The purple oak-leaf falls; the birchen bough
drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold."
- William Cullen Bryant

"Well, it's a marvelous night for a Moondance
With the stars up above in your eyes
A fantabulous night to make romance
'Neath the cover of October skies
And all the leaves on the trees are falling
To the sound of the breezes that blow
And I'm trying to please to the calling
Of your heart-strings that play soft and low
And all the night's magic seems to whisper and hush
And all the soft moonlight seems to shine in your blush."
- Van Morrison, Moondance